


Accident-prone

by FancyMeetingYouHere



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Misunderstandings, attempt at fluff, concussion talk, markson is life, random meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyMeetingYouHere/pseuds/FancyMeetingYouHere
Summary: Mark's sort of concussed when he meets Jackson, meaning he says and does things somewhat out of character. It lands him with a number and a date, so he's not too bothered. But things don't quite go according to plan...They end up even better.(aka my attempt at wholesome and fluffy Markson interaction)
Relationships: Mark Tuan/Jackson Wang
Comments: 17
Kudos: 131





	Accident-prone

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I am utterly amazed and thankful for the responses (kudos and comments) to my Markson fics! I love you all so much! You guys are the best!! It's mostly what's prompted me to keep posting these random little things, so thank you for giving me the courage to keep doing this. I'm thankful from the bottom of my heart to all who read this, and I do hope you'll enjoy this next story. Markson forever!
> 
> (Please, do drop a comment even if you just wanna gush about Markson. I wanna gush about them so bad!)

This is not how Mark had pictured the end of his life to be; Death by train at Thursday evening rush-hour. Hardly poetic. Not the least because he _had_ hoped to live beyond twenty-five, but alas. It seems the gods or the universe or pure, random, chance have something else in mind. Because Mark is pretty sure the asshole who just accidentally bumped his ass off the platform caused him to break his ankle and quite possibly gave him a concussion.

Someone’s voice filters passed the bitterness of Mark’s thoughts.

“Get off the tracks!”

 _Unhelpful_. Mark frowns. He knows he needs to get off the tracks, but his head hurts and his leg is somewhat on fire and he’s just generally _pissed_. Also, he’s a little salty. It’s not like being shoved off the damn train platform had been a _conscious_ decision. Mark is a _victim_ here. Maybe the voice could do a little less shouting and a little more extending a hand; it would be greatly appreciated.

 _Seriously,_ his inner voice nudges, _you need to get off the tracks. Like, now._

“Ow,” Mark grouches even as he pushes up. His head throbs at the right back, and, now that he can spot his ankle, his foot is veering the tiniest to the left. He hisses when he tries to move, the fire becoming ten times worse and doing nothing for the queasiness in his stomach. The rest of his body just aches as he moves slowly. (He was just _pushed_ off a _train platform_. Excuse him for being human, okay.)

There’s a train horn close-by. Too close. Mark realizes his train had been a mere minute away from arriving when he was so unceremoniously shoved to his demise (concussions bring out his dramatic side), and that, as the fog on his thoughts recedes, he doesn’t _actually_ want to die right now.

The train horn sounds again, much more desperately, and Mark turns his throbbing head to the side. Ice slams into his chest, heart suddenly sprinting because that train is _big_ and _moving too fast_ and _entirely too close._ It may be slowing down, but even with two working ankles he doesn’t think he could have made it.

Mark has never frozen before, but his means of flight is literally broken, and fight is out of the question. The train comes, Mark stares at it head-on, and he freezes in stone-cold fear.

The voice yells again. “Move!” It’s accompanied by feet crunching on gravel, and then Mark is air-born. Someone strong (Mark is lean, but by no means _light_ ) easily lifts him up and he yells more out of surprise than any protest. The train is close enough he can see the conductor duck behind the console, and then Mark is upside down over someone’s shoulder, being shoved onto the platform as if he’s a sack of potatoes.

A sack of potatoes with a broken ankle.

He screams when his leg jars, the cold stones digging into his arms and hands as he shoots up to stop rolling and _oh god stop rolling._ His stomach keeps roiling anyway, scream tapering off in a groan and whole body shaking. When he checks, his foot is still firmly attached even though it feels like someone just wrenched it off. Any motion of his leg makes his ankle feel worse than the tight and sharp pain currently barraging it, but Mark’s alive.

It settles into his chest as he shakily looks sideways, heart still hammering in adrenaline and a confirmed concussion happily dancing in his skull. Mark’s alive. The train has stopped on the tracks. He could reach out and touch it, eventually _does_ , but it hasn’t killed him.

The train has stopped. Mark is alive, and no one is screaming bloody murder. Which probably means his savior …

“Hey!” Some random guy crouches next to Mark, on the non-train side. He’s breathing hard, eyes narrowed and hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Why the hell didn’t you move!?”

It takes two blinks before Mark can place the voice. “You’re the shouting guy.”

Shouting guy blinks in obvious confusion, his nose scrunching, and suddenly Mark thinks he’s utterly adorable. The soft, auburn, floofy hair reminds Mark of this one stuffed bear he had as a kid and he kind of wants to reach out and touch it. _Concussion_ , he sternly reminds himself. _You have a concussion. Touching random people’s hair is a big no-no._

The thought and its implications make him grimace. Shouting guy goes from annoyed to concerned.

“Wait, are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

Mark nods, pouting. Fuck it. This’ll be his third trip to the emergency room _this year_ , and it’s only June. (Mark may be a bit accident prone and also very invested in martial arts tricking. It’s not the best combination.) Jaebeom and Jinyoung are going to be _thrilled._ Shouting guy doesn’t seem to like it much either.

“Where are you hurt?” His eyes search Mark. With a sigh, Mark points at his foot.

“It’s probably broken,” he says with a hint of petulance.

Shouting guy cringes. “Ow. Sorry. I didn’t think of that.” Then he turns back towards … oh wow. Mark blinks, only now seeing the crowd that’s formed around them. Shouting guy focuses on a thin dude standing closer than the rest.

“BamBam, call an ambulance.”

The kid nods and immediately fishes out his phone. When Shouting guy turns back to look at Mark, his face is apologetic and softer, eyes oozing concern.

“Sorry for throwing you around,” he bites his lip. “You just- you were just sitting there and the train got really close and, well- I panicked.”

Mark shrugs. It’s not really a big deal. When Shouting guy grows more concerned Mark frowns. Does he need to do more? Is he forgetting something? The lightbulb flickers into existence and he almost groans at himself.

Concussions make him more socially awkward than usual.

“Thank you,” he says quickly, “for saving me.” He tries for a smile. It works well enough when Shouting guy relaxes a little and finally let’s go of his shoulder. The other even grins.

“No problem.”

The silence between them stretches and Mark hopes this guy will give some sort of signal that their interaction is over, because Mark’s brain is far too occupied with _almost dead but not quite_ and _broken ankles hurt_ to be in any way socially perceptive. Luckily, the thin guy from before cuts in before the tension grows beyond unsalvageable.

He steps up to them with a slight smile and addresses Mark. “They wanna know if you’re hurt anywhere else?”

The ‘they’ are clearly whoever is on the phone and Mark needs to digest the question before he answers utterly bluntly. “I have a concussion.”

Both Shouting guy and the thin guy blanch, the former immediately scanning Mark’s head with his eyes as the latter relates this to the ‘they’ on his phone.

“Why didn’t you say anything!” Shouting guy lives up to his temporary nickname and Mark cringes at the volume.

“It’s not that bad,” he mutters, but Shouting guy glares at him.

“Since _you’re_ the one with the concussion I highly doubt you get any say in how bad it is,” he comments drily. Mark wisely refrains from mentioning how he’s already had two concussions in his life and has a general idea. Shouting guy looks a little peeved as is.

Speaking of, it’s getting bothersome to continuously refer to this dude as Shouting guy in his head, so Mark blurts out his next question with only the slightest cocking of his head. (You know, because concussion equals headache.)

“What’s your name?”

The man in question blinks twice, eyes still furiously scanning Mark’s head as if he’ll develop x-ray vision to diagnose Mark with, if only he wills it. Then he frowns and snaps out of it, eyes returning to look at Mark’s.

“Oh right,” he mumbles more to himself, then clears his throat. “It’s Jackson.”

It’s a nice name to go with a nice face, and Mark holds out his hand with a smile. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”

Jackson shakes his hand with caution, face clearly expressing he thinks Mark would benefit greatly from a straight-jacket. “Hi?” Then he snorts as he takes his hand back, eyes never leaving Mark’s face. “You really are concussed, huh.”

Mark shrugs. It’s not the first time. Though he could do without the broken ankle. Those fuckers _hurt._

Jackson slowly shakes his head. “You just almost _died,”_ he says a little incredulously. “You have a busted ankle and _something_ wrong with your head and I kinda _threw you_ onto the platform, and yet you’re smiling at me and saying ‘nice to meet you’.” He let’s out a disbelieving laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “You really are something else, Mark.”

“I am pretty weird,” Mark agrees sagely. It causes Jackson to break out into a smile and Mark notices that if he keeps completely still and focuses on Jackson, then the pain slicing into his ankle and hammering into his head drift into the background. It’s nice. Jackson’s a walking painkiller and Mark wants more.

“What kind of product do you use?” He muses, eyes once again stuck on the impossible softness of Jackson’s hair.

The other just _stares._ Then he blinks. “Say that again?”

This time Mark does bring up a hand. (Slowly, because pain, but Jackson’s very good at this painkiller business. The guy could do it for a living.) (Maybe he does…)

“Your hair,” Mark smiles as he rubs a few strands between his fingers and _holy mother it’s so smooth_. “It’s unreal,” Mark chuckles. “How the heck do you get it this soft?” When he looks at Jackson again, hand falling away from the other’s hair, the man sports a blush and is opening and closing his mouth without sound. Mark frowns, then bites his lip.

 _Concussion, remember?_ His inner voice sighs. _No touchy-touchy people you don’t know. Bad Mark._

He grimaces. “Sorry,” he offers, waving a vague hand at his head. “Concussions kinda mess with my focus and ability to human, but it’s just-” his treacherous eyes stray to Jackson’s hair again- “ _how the heck_ do you get it-”

 _Concussion, Mark!_ His inner voice screeches. _Shut up about his hair!_

With a frustrated huff he snaps his eyes to the ground. “Sorry,” he repeats, now thoroughly done with himself. Lord, he forgot how exhausting concussions are.

A snigger catches him off-guard and he peeks to see Jackson sporting a wide smile, slowly shaking his head. “You really _are_ something else, Mark.” He says with mirth dancing in his eyes. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

To which Mark stares stupidly (Am I flirting with him?) and then nods. (ouch, bad idea!) He stops with a hiss, then says with eyes still scrunched in pain. “You’re really hot and _did_ just save my life.”

Normal Mark _never_ would have said anything like that, would have never even thought of it, but normal Mark left on an extended lunchbreak and left concussed-Mark in charge. So, really. What else did he expect of himself?

When the pain in his head tapers off again Mark opens his eyes to stare some more at Jackson. (Because the fire in his ankle is growing more prominent again and this whole thing with Jackson really _is_ a fantastic painkiller/distraction.) Jackson looks stumped, cheeks rosy and eyes wide. It’s a remarkably good look on him and Mark smirks.

“You’re totally my type.”

It makes Jackson flush a beautiful shade of red, head dropping with a shy smile as he runs another hand through his hair. Mark feels emboldened to add. “And cute. You’re also really cute.”

Jackson groans, head still hanging and his ears shot red. “Dude, _stop._ You’re epically concussed right now.”

“So?” Mark shoots back cheekily. Flustered Jackson is unbearably adorable.

Jackson lets out a long breath, apparently gathering the courage to look back up. Hand still in his hair and cheeks minimally less red, he looks at Mark. “So, I think you’ll probably have a drastic change-of-mind after a good rest.” His smile goes fond. “You’re not really yourself right now.”

Mark snorts. “I’m concussed, not insane.”

Jackson doesn’t seem too sure that there’s a difference. It makes Mark smile.

“You’re my type,” he promises Jackson, then decides _fuck it_ because Jackson still looks ridiculously unconvinced and Mark knows his inhibitions will rise with a vengeance once his pain drops. “Do you want to go on a date with me?” He poses without any preamble.

Jackson flushes all over again, mouth gaping. It draws a giggle from Mark because _oh my lord, he is too cute._

“I’m-you-” Jackson stutters, then visibly swallows. He blinks, draws in a breath. “Do you actually mean that?”

Hell yes, he does. With minimal pain (so maybe his ankle really hurts, where are those paramedic people?) Mark fishes his phone from his jacket. It’s remarkably uncracked. (huh, how about that)

“Put your number in,” he tells Jackson. The other stares a little star-struck, then does as he’s told. Mark giggles again when he sees Jackson’s last name is Wang, and shoots the other a quick text. With a noise of surprise (utterly, _utterly adorable)_ Jackson plucks his own phone from his pants’ pocket and quirks an eyebrow at the screen.

“’Mark Tuan’, huh?” He smiles. Mark maybe dies a little inside.

“Yup,” Mark pops the ‘p’, then goes utterly serious. “You’ll have to give me six weeks to get through the most of this concussion, but after that, and if you don’t mind going out with a recovering cripple, I’m all yours.” He winks to the utter horrification of his inner voice. He’s still a little high on the happy chemicals his body produced to deal with the pain and shock, so really, none of this can be put on Mark.

Jackson remains in a state of permanently-flushed for the remaining few minutes until the paramedics show up. (And Mark can’t help but throw little things like ‘you’re cute’ and ‘your smile is adorable’ his way because a flustered Jackson might just be his new favorite thing _ever.)_

Once at the hospital, Mark’s bubble starts to break. (He’d been riding on a happy wave because Jackson had sort of held his hand through the whole painful ordeal of getting strapped on a gurney, and Mark may have melted just a little.) The doctor confirms Mark’s self-diagnosis with a frown to match all frowns, and sternly tells Mark to ‘stop showing up here!’. They both know he won’t, but the sentiment is nice, Mark supposes.

The pain truly hits when he’s being wheeled to get his ankle set. It’s broken, obviously, but doesn’t require surgery. Mark takes the tiny silver lining. But his mood plunges as the pain soars, no Jackson present to take the edge off, and the doctors finally take pity on him and call an anesthetist.

Fucking finally.

(Mark knows he’s got good pain-tolerance, but after being poked and prodded and asked to ‘turn your ankle to the left’ so they can take a better picture (it’s an x-ray, not a photoshoot) Mark’s limit has just about been reached. Seriously, his ankle is _broken_. Maybe the doctor would like him to move his knee _in the other direction_ , because that’d be just as easy.)

His concussion means he spends the night in the hospital. Which means he needs to call his roommate/mother and tell him what happened. Which goes something like this.

( _“You’re where!!”_ Jinyoung screeches, and Mark holds the phone about a foot from his ear with a grimace.

“I’ll be fi-” he starts, but Jinyoung isn’t done.

“The third time, this is the _third damn time this year!_ I wasn’t kidding about putting you on a leash! Is that what you want! Do you want me to put you on one of those kiddie-leashes, because I damn well will, Mark!”

The rant continues for a minute more, Mark cringing the entire time. Then Jinyoung makes him swear he’ll be okay and proceeds to tell him he and Jaebeom will pick him up tomorrow.

Basically, it didn’t go as bad as Mark feared.)

He’s woken every two hours, which gets annoying and redundant (according to him) after the second time. He tells the nurse as much, but they ignore him. It’s horrible customer-service, really.

Then he’s cleared in the morning and sent home and he can’t help but wave at the doctor as he’s wheeled through the hallway.

“See you next time!” He says loudly, sporting a wide grin. (His pain killers haven’t truly worn off yet. It’s awesome.)

The doctor may or may not have made a very rude gesture behind his back. Mark wouldn’t blame him if he had.

Then he goes home and needs to recover.

Joy.

(Concussions can linger, as Mark well knows. He lives on painkillers for about two weeks, grouching and snarking and in general being a horrible person to be around. He’s unsure how Jinyoung, and by extension Jaebeom put up with him. After that it gets a little better, but bright lights and loud sounds still tire him after an hour, meaning his entertainment is falling asleep and hoping he dreams.

It also means he has to ask Jinyoung to check for messages (from Jackson) sometimes, when his head is being particularly stubborn. When the other stays silent for weeks on end, Mark’s mood only sours further. His rational side tries to win him over with ‘you could text him too’, but Mark throws the proverbial door in rational him’s face and shrinks further into the couch that’s been his home for weeks.

Broken ankles suck.

Concussions suck.

Mark’s life _sucks._

...and Jackson sorta sucks too.)

* * *

Six-ish weeks later, on a sunny day that Mark had wanted to ignore while curled on the couch, he finds himself trailing (hopping with crutches) after Jinyoung like a particularly disgruntled child. The fact that he’s pouting probably doesn’t help, but he’s so _done_ with Jinyoung’s mothering as of late.

“Which one do you want?” Jinyoung says for the third time since they’ve entered, shoving two boxes of cereal under Mark’s nose. He groans and hangs his head.

“I don’t care.” Which Jinyoung already knows, but the younger is trying a little too hard to get Mark ‘interacting with the real world again’.

Jinyoung grouches as he puts a random box in his cart. “You could just _pretend_ to care. Like a normal person.”

Which Mark isn’t, not even on a good day, but whatever. He shrugs at Jinyoung and the younger grumbles some more under his breath as he stalks off again. Mark follows slowly. His ankle is mostly healed, the bone at least, but he’ll have to get through at least a month of physical therapy before his doctor will even _think_ of backing off. Which is where he _thought_ they’d been headed when Jinyoung sprung this surprise shopping trip on him. Apparently, Mark’s been hogging the couch too much (no such thing, but sure) and Jinyoung is Worried. ‘Jinyoung’ and ‘worry’ in the same sentence is dangerous, which is why Mark’s doing even this much, but he draws the line at actively participating. No amount of angry badgering will make Mark _want_ to be human right now.

They end up cutting their visit to the store short, Jinyoung letting out a frustrated huff and beelining for the register after Mark’s tenth ‘I don’t care’. But really, what did the younger expect?

“I expected you to _not_ want to be a hermit,” Jinyoung admonishes him in the car later. “I expected you to act like you’re older for once, as you always _love_ to remind me.”

To which Mark just snorts, because Jinyoung’s been his mother for three years already. There’s no more changing that now.

Jinyoung rolls his eyes at him. “Sometimes I really feel like I’m raising you.”

Mark refrains from commenting. Especially since his mood goes frosty when they take the turn to the gym.

_Right. Physical therapy._

The gym is familiar because it’s where Jaebeom works as a fitness instructor. Mark was forced to attend one too many ‘classes’ in a past when J-squared wasn’t a thing yet. It’s also not a place he particularly likes, but Jinyoung had made the arrangements because the gym is only fifteen minutes from their flat compared to the hospital’s thirty minutes.

It's a logical choice, but Mark sulks simply because he can. (And if he hasn’t checked his phone for days because Jackson completely dropped him, then no one needs to know.)

“This’ll be a good thing,” Jinyoung promises as he searches for a parking space within reasonable walking distance. “If nothing else, it’ll make your mood someone else’s problem for about half an hour.”

Mark almost smiles at that and Jinyoung quirks a brow at him, finally having found a spot.

“Seriously, Mark. I don’t know what the dash ever did to you, but you’re trying to melt it with your _eyes.”_

Which, true, but Mark would rather sit through a dozen of Jinyoung’s snarky comments about his mood than tell him it’s because of a guy.

A very handsome and helpful guy, but a guy nonetheless.

Jinyoung sighs. “Are you at least going to _walk_ inside? Or do I need to call Jaebeom to come carry you, because I will.”

There’s no doubt about the validity of that threat, (Mark’s been carried a bit too much by Jaebeom these past weeks for his pride to comfortably handle) and opens his door in response. It’s seemingly enough for Jinyoung and they silently make their way to the gym. The stairs pose a small challenge, but Mark’s got enough experience with stuff like this to make his way inside _without_ any manhandling.

Seriously, Jinyoung. _I’m fine._

At the reception, Mark gives his name before Jinyoung can beat him to it and _actually_ become his mother. The girl smiles sweetly and points him to room 3. The treatment rooms are in a line at the end of the ground floor, meaning Mark has to hobble his embarrassed ass passed dozens of fit men and women working out and doing a double-take at the random crutch-boy stumbling through their midst. It’s a small blessing he managed to make Jinyoung stay at the reception. (Though it makes him feel no less of a child to know someone is _waiting to take him home.)_

When he closes the door to the room, he groans and drops his ass onto the treatment table, leaning his crutches against it and then putting his head in his hands. Why is this his life?

After only thirty seconds of wallowing in self-pity, the door opens and closes again, a happy voice ringing out.

“Good afternoon. My name is Jackson Wang and I’ll be your physical therapist.”

Mark snaps his head up, dread coiling in his stomach and earlier statement reassessed. Why is _this_ his life?

Jackson freezes in his happy introduction when he locks eyes with Mark. He’s honestly even more stunning than Mark remembers. The black shirt with the gym’s red logo looks like it was made for him and Mark regrets every decision that led to him sitting in front of Jackson in nothing but sweats and a large hoodie while he hasn’t washed his hair in twelve hours.

His life is a damn comedy, that’s what.

“Jackson,” he breathes. His mind catches up and reminds him he doesn’t actually have anything to say, and he clicks his mouth shut again. Jackson blinks.

“Mark.” He nervously taps his leg. “You’re here. Right. And you- you obviously weren’t expecting to see me.”

_Duh._

The thought may or may not show on his face and Jackson grimaces.

“Right, of course not.” He jabs a thumb at the door with a sad smile. “I’ll go get someone else to treat you.”

It stings, badly. Mark’s mood hadn’t been the best when he came in, and Jackson’s blatant disregard breaks something. _This_ is the guy he pined after for _weeks?_

“You could have just said no,” he snaps.

“Wha-” Jackson turns with wide eyes.

“When I asked you out.” Mark continues just as bitter. He hunches into himself, fingers curled around the cold metal edges of the treatment table. “You could have just said no instead of playing along when you clearly weren’t interested.” He gives Jackson a harsh glare. “I’m not gonna break just because a cute guy turns me down.”

“No, no, no,” Jackson frowns, taking a step closer. _“You_ turned _me_ down. I sent you a text after six weeks, just like you said.” His voice gains heat. “Hell, I sent over a _dozen_ texts, like an _idiot,_ and you just, poof-” he mimes an explosion with his hands,- “nothing! And honestly, I can understand if you changed your mind because you were really out of it back then. But do me the decent human courtesy of just _saying so_ , instead of showing up here and throwing it all back in my face!” He’s angry now, eyes narrowed and the lines around his mouth deep and turned down. It’s got Mark reeling and scrambling his thoughts because _Jackson sent texts?_

The other isn’t done yet.

“I wanted to go out with you!” He’s shouting now. “I wanted to get to know this whacky guy who sports a big ass grin while sitting on a train platform, seconds after I had to haul his ass from being crushed by a train, and talking about _hair products!”_

After two loaded seconds in which Mark wants to sink into the furniture because he’s been avoiding his phone for _days_ and therefore missed Jackson (who’d only been following Mark’s stupid direction of ‘give me six weeks’ with blind loyalty, _oh my god, Mark, you stupid)_ , the other sags in his skin. Anger turns into resignation.

“You could have just said ‘no thanks’, instead of whatever this is.” Jackson twirls a desolate hand at Mark, which is utterly appropriate.

Mark is an idiot.

 _Yup,_ the preppy voice in his head readily agrees.

After a fierce inner debate, Mark does the only thing he can when presented with a social situation that makes him want to stab himself. Repeatedly. He drops his head in his hands and groans. When he’s done, there’s silence.

“Why the fuck did you listen to me,” he eventually mumbles into his hands. Embarrassment doesn’t come close to the desire to be swallowed by the furniture. He can feel the heat of his blush burn into his hands as he repeats Jackson’s ‘I wanted to go out with you’ in his head to a dizzying extent.

Jackson makes a confused noise. “Why did I- because you were hurt! Because you needed time to _heal!_ Which, you know, you still haven’t.”

As right as Jackson is, he doesn’t have to rub it in.

“I’m fine,” Mark grouches. If it sounds more like a whine, he blames it on his hands still muffling his voice.

“Clearly.” Jackson deadpans, but there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. It’s confirmed when Mark finally scrapes his courage together and drops his hands to look Jackson in the eye. The other sports a soft smile, arms crossed and shoulders tight. Mark sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, wringing his hands and looking anywhere but Jackson. “You’re right, I did say the six-weeks thing, but I never thought- I mean, I didn’t even really _mean it._ I just thought you played along and then dropped me, and I may have _not_ looked at my phone for a while because of it.” It sounds stupid even to him and he cringes, risking a glance at Jackson to see befuddlement painted on his face.

“So, wait,” Jackson uncrosses his arms and gives Mark a wary glance. “You’re saying you never even _saw_ my texts?”

Which sounds even worse coming from Jackson and Mark grimaces, dropping his head again. “Yes?”

“Because you haven’t been looking at your phone.”

“Yes.”

“Because you thought I turned you down?”

“…yes.”

Jackson giggles. It’s so out of context with the storm of self-hatred brewing in Mark’s chest that his head shoots up, eyes wide in the face of Jackson sporting a closed-mouthed smile that’s quite honestly a health-hazard.

Mark knows drooling in public is frowned upon, but _Jackson. Is. Too. Cute._

“I’m sorry,” Mark says again, “I’m really-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Jackson rushes forward, smile blinding and hands suddenly warm on Mark’s shoulders. It’s not fair how the simple gesture makes Mark shiver, especially when Jackson leans down to be at eye-height.

“Don’t you get it,” Jackson says excited, “this whole thing is just one big misunderstanding!” His hands fall from Mark’s shoulder and the loss of heat is instantaneous, but Jackson’s smile makes up for it. He crouches, meaning Mark now has to look down, which he does all too eagerly.

He likes the sound of ‘misunderstanding’. He likes it a lot. He especially likes how it sounds that maybe, he’ll have a chance of fixing things with Jackson.

“To erase all doubt,” Jackson grins, and Mark suddenly feels extremely put on the spot. He almost hides behind his hands again, but Jackson’s too sweet not to look at.

Jackson clears his throat and breathes in deep. “Mark,” he starts mock-seriously, demeanor suddenly befitting of a Shakespeare play. It has Mark giggling before he can slap a hand in front of his mouth, but then Jackson smiles _more_ , so Mark doesn’t. Jackson’s smile is gorgeous.

“Okay, okay,” Jackson grins, shifting in place and pinning Mark with a non-serious, serious stare. It takes effort to not break out into full blown laughter.

“Mark,” Jackson says again, face dramatically serious again. “do you, with your angel-like features and laugh that is a blessing to man-”

Mark can’t take it, he bursts out laughing, hand hanging onto the treatment table as he doubles. Still giggling he straightens and catches Jackson biting his lip to stop his smile. It melts his insides. This idiot of a guy is cute and adorable, and every second Mark spends with him convinces him of that. He pokes Jackson’s shoulder with his good foot.

“I look like shit,” he says with a wide smile, gesturing to his general appearance.

Jackson swats the comment away. “You’re either blind, or don’t own a single mirror, so trust the expert, please.”

Mark is biting his lip hard enough he knows it’ll leave dents, but he can’t stop the smile from breaking his face. Jackson is utterly ridiculous, and Mark hadn’t known _any of this_ about the other back at the platform but, _fuck,_ Mark thinks he might be falling.

Jackson takes a deep breath, eyes twinkling and the edges of his lips twitching as if fighting a smile. “Mark!” He says a third time, keeping cheeky eye-contact that almost sends Mark over the edge again.

He’s trying, honestly trying to keep from laughing, but Jackson’s _hilarious_ and Mark is a sucker already.

“Do you, with your angel face, and laugh that’s like bell-chimes-” Jackson announces, and Mark stifles his laughter behind his hands,- “ want to go out on a date with a simple peasant? With me?” He plants his hands questioningly on his chest, smile both expectant and too wide as his eyes keep looking at Mark. It’s both ridiculous and cute (how even?) and Mark loses it. His laugh breaks out from behind his hands as he doubles over again. A second later Jackson joins him, and Mark notes with surprise that Jackson’s laugh is even a little higher than Mark’s own. It’s utterly addictive.

“Yes,” Mark giggles in between trying not to fall off the treatment table and finding bits of Jackson to poke with his good foot. “Yes, you utter goofball. I want to go out with you.”

When Jackson has sobered up a bit, catching himself on his butt when he can’t keep crouching any longer, he gives Mark a happy smile.

“Awesome.”

Mark takes his chance to shoot back. “You’re so damn cute.”

Jackson flushes just as much as he had six weeks ago, especially when they do eventually get around to the therapy session they were supposed to be doing which Mark then keeps interrupting by shooting little compliments at Jackson. He didn’t miss the whole ‘peasant’ thing from just now, and Mark thinks he wants to correct Jackson on that.

Every day. For a while.

For a really, _really_ long while.

**Author's Note:**

> All medical knowledge is from personal experience as a patient or google search. None of it should be taken as absolute truth. Always consult your doctor when you have medical questions!


End file.
